


I'll be your Watson

by DestielsDestiny



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Spoilers, The boys have trouble with words but they love each other, spoilers for 1x10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 22:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7010443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I suppose you’ll want to be Holmes then.” Harry’s eyes regard Doyle with the kind of serious concentration that he has rather understandably never thought to associate with Harry Houdini of all people. </p><p>“Don’t worry Doc, I think I’m happy being Watson thanks.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be your Watson

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Tag for episode 1x10. I own nothing.

=

When Arthur first wakes up, he’s shivering. Starched white sheets brush almost painfully against his searching fingers, even as his side makes itself known with a searing intensity. 

If the sheets weren’t enough of a sign, the off white walls that greet his slightly cracked open eyes would be a dead give away. Hospital. 

Apparently, decorating options for such facilities is universal no matter what continent they’re located on. Arthur finds the predictability of that oddly reassuring. 

He’s busy attempting to ascertain that everything is more or less still in the right working order, pain aside, when a light snoring sound meets his ears. Shifting his head on the alarmingly stiff pillowcase, he just makes out an unmistakable mop of dark curls arrayed limply across an outstretched arm, the fingers of which are inches from brushing Arthur’s own hand. 

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realize he was holding, allowing the pain of that action to gust over him in waves as he delicately reaches out to touch the head flopped at an alarming angle across the starchy sheets. 

He can just make out the dried remains of brownish red stains on the hand nearly clenched in the drab coloured waistcoat Arthur recognizes vaguely as the one that Touie gave him two Christmases ago, with the horizontal stripes, the one he’d packed across an ocean for sentimental reasons and ended up almost meeting the President of the United States in. 

Arthur lets his hand settled against those slightly sweaty curls, allowing himself a contented if painful sigh as the man attached to those curls unconsciously nuzzles into the pressure applied to his skull. 

Arthur knows he should withdraw his hand before a ubiquitous nurse comes in to check on them, or before Constable Stratton returns to the chair her crumbled coat is adorned across by the window, but for one blissful moment, he can’t bring himself to care about anything more than the heady realization that they’re all alive, and in more or less one piece. 

00

The second time Arthur wakes up he is significantly warmer, the blissful strains of morphia thrumbing through his veins and dulling the burning in his side to a soft ache. 

If fact, if anything, he notices his left side far more than his right, where a coal hot lump seems to be lodged. Opening his eyes reveals more white walls, and more dark curls, still topped by a light blue, red-brown stained suit jacket. 

Arthur’s gaze is ripped from the surprisingly small looking magician curled up against his side on the ridiculously narrow bed they are somehow both currently fitting into by a quietly cleared throat. 

Adelaide meets his eyes with a gentle sadness, closing the book in her lap, the edges of an M and a YER just visible as the cover disappears into the folds of her skirt. 

And Arthur could have sworn they had all brought more than one change of clothes on this adventure, but apparently not. That, or they’re luggage got lost somewhere in the line of saving the President. Which is entirely possible considering how hard it actually was to make it from Canada to Buffalo in less than a day, but he digresses. 

“He hasn’t let go of you for the past two days.” Adelaide’s voice is heavy with something besides sleepiness, and Arthur feels his own throat close slightly in response. “I think he was scared you would disappear.” 

A silent tear makes its way down her cheek, and Arthur shifts up slightly, careful not to disturb the sleeping bundle on his chest. “Thank you Adelaide. For saving my life. It was the most courageous thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

A choked sob. “Don’t ever try to be brave again Doctor Doyle, please. Harry would be unbearable without you around.” 

Arthur blinks wet eyes rapidly, feeling the bundle’s breath quicken in a way that only someone feigning sleep can, his eyes firmly fixed on Adelaide’s sniffling countenance as he voices in his next sentiment, the promise heavily embedded behind every word. 

“I’m not going anywhere. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

00

Arthur wakes up for the third time to blinding sunlight and deafening silence. He allows himself a moment to bask in the blissful peace and quiet of the moment, before the rustling of paper gently shatters the illusion of stillness, hospital sounds filtering in through the closed door. 

Harry Houdini is perched lazily on a chair with two feet balanced high of the floor, his stockinged feet crossed at the ankles, almost brushing Arthur’s blanket covered ones at the end of the bed. He brightens visibly as he takes in Arthur’s wide open, alert eyes. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes Doc. It’s been a week you know. I was beginning to think you’d never wake up.” That would explain both the diminished pain in his side sans any apparent pain relief, and Harry’s actual change of clothes and carefully not worried expression.  
He somehow finds enough energy to scoff playfully. “I wrestled an armed assassin and saved the President of the United States Houdini. I think I’m entitled to at least a little rest.” 

Harry’s smirk turns more genuine around the edges, before abruptly veering back into worry as Arthur pulls himself up the pillow slightly and fails utterly at silencing a hissed wince. Maybe a little pain medication still wouldn’t go amiss. 

Deft hands ease him back against the pillow as Harry is suddenly right beside him, buzzing with energy. “Careful Doc, remember you’ve got a three-inch hole in your side. Don’t pull your stitches or Addie will kill me.” 

Arthur sees an exit. “Where is our good Constable Stratton anyway?” 

Harry settles on the edge of the bed, unnecessarily adjusting the pillow in a distinctly plumping motion before barely restraining his hand from continuing on to feeling Arthur’s forehead. 

Arthur watches the fingers curl twitchily back into Harry’s lap with an unexpected feeling of loss. “She’s sending a telegram to Mrs. M and the kids, letting them know you’re finally on the mend and everything.”

Arthur’s head swivels up from his fixation on Harry’s nimble fingers tapping idly across the bedspread. “How are they doing?” Harry’s face softens, his eyes going doe like. 

“They’ll be a lot better knowing that their dad is on the mend.” The rest goes without saying, especially with Harry, and Arthur feels his gaze wandering sadly as Touie springs to the forefront of his mind once again. 

Something gold catches the edge of his wandering eyes abruptly, jumping out like a life raft in a gale. “Is that the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes?” Arthur does nothing to conceal the incredulity in his tone as Harry suddenly looks sheepish and furtive all at once, reaching out futilely as if to conceal the offending object. 

“I needed something to read and it was all that was in your suitcase.” Arthur ignores the returning salvo of misdirection in favour of another. It feels so good to share their usual repartee, if only for a moment. So normal. 

“I didn’t pack any of my stories on this trip Houdini. Besides, that binding is a limited series that I only sent out to a few friends.” His voice trails off as his probably hopelessly ratty moustache begins to twitch, scenting a nicely smelling rat. 

“That’s the copy I gave you.” Harry’s hands raise in a negative gesture, his face opening up in a slightly panicked rye grin. “You like them! You like my stories! That’s how you knew that quote back at the house.” Harry has the grace to blush as Arthur’s mouth falls open in a delighted laugh. 

A stab of pain nearly steals the laughter from his very lips, draining the edges of the blush from Harry’s pale face, and Arthur is quick to press his advantage. 

“I supposed you’ll want to be Holmes then. Since our lives do seem to have become rather like something I would write about.” Harry’s blushing smirk turns shy for a fraction of a second, leaving Arthur feeling distinctly confused. 

The tone that follows is just cocky enough to sound oddly fake. “Nay, don’t worry Doc, I think I’m happy being Watson thanks.” The fakeness grows stronger as Harry seems unable to keep holding his gaze. 

“After all, you’re the one who died and came back to life.” The tone is falsely cheerful enough that Arthur considers not letting Harry have this round, but something in the fragile, suddenly very young face starring at him stops him. 

“Nice try Harry.” He gets a smirk in return, one which doesn’t fade with Arthur’s latest wince, one that is still firmly fixed in place like a carnival mask as Harry slips quickly towards the door on shoeless feet, throwing “I’ll get a nurse” over his shoulder. 

In an ironic moment of déjà vu, the movement upsets the book wresting on the bedcovers, words dancing out at Arthur like a beacon. 

_I shall ever regard as the best and wisest._

Arthur feels his throat close up as a shy smile blinks across his vision, a half remembered cry of “Some one help him! Please! Doc stay with me!” floating through his mind, a dashed away tear in a lonely village street, a clenched fist holding desperately to a bloody waistcoat. A white face clutching a mother’s limp hand in an opulent hotel room.

“Harry.” A hand freezes on the door frame, a brightly adorned back hunching almost painfully as a head wreathed in bouncing curls twists back to regard Arthur’s pained face. Words almost seem to fail them both. 

“I’m glad you’re alright.” Wide blue eyes reflect with a near twinkle in the sun like watery prismed diamonds. 

“I’m glad you’re alright too Arthur.” The hand leaves the doorframe, the door itself swinging nearly silently in the wake of Harry’s choked up exit. 

Arthur lets his hand come to rest on the page open on the bed, his fingers gently brushing the words. 

_I shall ever regard him as._

Arthur feels a tear slowly make its way down his cheek, but makes no move to brush it away before it hits the page he’s dragged up under his chin. He breaths in the faint scent of cologne that clings to the book, closing his eyes tightly. 

Touie had loved the way he was when he was writing Holmes, to be sure. But she had also loved Holmes. Said he reminded her of someone. Arthur always pretended he didn’t know who she meant. 

_I’ll be Watson thanks._

Arthur feels his wet cheeks stretch in a nearly painful smile. He whispers so quietly he can almost not hear it himself, but somehow it feels like the loudest shout he’s ever uttered. 

“I’ll be Holmes then.”


End file.
